


Burn For You (I Promise)

by Ocean_Born_Mary



Series: Forever (I Promise) [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode 1x03 Tag, F/M, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocean_Born_Mary/pseuds/Ocean_Born_Mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This whole thing between the three of them has gone south.  It was just supposed to be an occasional thing.  For when the wine wasn’t enough.  He wasn’t supposed to care.  </p><p>In which Porthos promises to never leave.</p><p>Episode 1x03 (Commodities) Tag</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn For You (I Promise)

**Author's Note:**

> This has gone wildly out of control. I only have all of you to thank. So, thank you. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: They still aren't mine… :(
> 
> I am working on a longer piece set directly after the first fic in this series--it may take a little longer than I'd like as I'm working for the next 14 days (but that just means I should stay up later, right?). But I promise it is coming. That being said, feel free to add your own works to the 'verse! Just let me know in the comments (or somewhere) so I can come give you lots of kudos. :D
> 
> Enjoy!

            Aramis is angry with him.

            It is the real reason he stays behind in this haunted house. 

            He has spent the past day turning corners and seeing Her.  He can hear Thomas in the hallway, sliding down the banister of the front staircase, remembers the reverberating crash as they knocked over that table in the dining hall, dishes and silverware flying everywhere.  There’s a hole in the carpet where they started a fire with a broken bit of glass and the sun, one in the wall hidden by a clever landscape from the time they attempted to sneak his pony into the house.  But despite this, Thomas has grown fuzzy in his brain—perhaps it is the bottle that he hasn’t put down since their arrival.  

            But She…She is everywhere.

            It isn’t Aramis’ fault.  He couldn’t have known.

            How could he when he refused to even acknowledge his upbringing—the fact that he was the mysterious Comte who had disappeared from Court five years ago after a ‘tragic accident’.

            No.  This is purely a disaster of his own making.

            And if he’d just been open, Aramis would have understood and he wouldn’t be so…cold.

            Aramis is never cold. 

            Too much has happened, and Athos cannot fathom it.

            This whole thing between the three of them has gone south.  It was just supposed to be an occasional thing.  For when the wine wasn’t enough.  He wasn’t supposed to care.  To…whatever it is that is happening.  And neither were they. But Porthos rarely goes home anymore. Aramis hasn’t been with a woman for over a month.

            And Athos is no longer used to sleeping alone.

            He’s beginning to feel…attached. Thinks he owes them more than he’s been willing to give. 

            The thought that he’s destroyed it all (and for what?  A woman who never truly loved him, a ghost who has bled him dry, has wrapped itself in his very being and refuses to be exorcised?) leads him to raid the cellar for something stronger. He’s promised Porthos to no longer actively attempt to kill himself.

            But if he has an accident on the stairs…

            By the time he’s imbibed the second bottle, Athos is seeing her dress around every corner, can smell her perfume on the linens, in his study…

            He hasn’t slept since they left Le Havre, couldn’t stand the thought of being defenseless in this house (somewhere that used to be safe, used to be home, that became a prison, his own personal Hell), and too torn over what had been said, too worried about what he had done (irreparably broken) to be granted even a few hours quiet rest.

            And when he’d taken but a few minutes to walk in the field, hoping to find Thomas as he kept stumbling across Her, he instead nearly got them all killed.  When he heard the gunshot his knees had gone weak, eyes screwed tight as he imagined Thomas falling to the ground…

            Could not let Porthos ride. Could not lose him too (even if he was already gone, lost to his demons as everything eventually was).

            So now they both were angry with him.

            But no more angry than he was with himself.

            Perhaps with enough drink this will all finally go away.  He’ll stray too close to a window.  Even Porthos could not blame him for that.  So he takes another sip, stumbles up the stairs, collapses at the top a heaving mess—because he cannot betray Porthos’ trust, even as intoxicated as he is—and tries to breathe around the pain that is consuming him from the inside out.

            He imagines that they are riding back to Paris and have come to hate him.  He has lied to them.   He has put himself before them.

            Athos does not see that Aramis’ anger is born from something much more complicated—concern and frustration, because no matter how much rope he throws Athos, the other man insists on trying to hang himself with it. 

            “We should go back,” Porthos whispers midafternoon. “You saw what state he was in.”

            “You need rest and we have to get Bonnaire to Paris,” Aramis responds reasonably, but the anger has receded and worry is fast taking its place.  “He said he’d follow.”

            “He should have caught up by now,” but he isn’t going to catch up, because he has just spilled a perfectly good bottle on the clean linen, has smashed another against the wall and is thinking of using the sharp little pieces to carve the names of the dead on his wrists.

            “What would you have me do?” Aramis snaps, “You cannot go back, nor can I leave you and d’Artangan with Bonnaire. D’Artangan won’t be able to stop you from strangling him and you’ll rip out my stitches.” 

            Athos is thinking of pulling his portrait from the wall, tearing it into tiny little pieces, because the self-loathing has settled in deep now, roots curling around his heart and strangling any hope he has left. 

            D’Artangan tires of their arguing, turns his horse before either can protest, sets them at ease.  Because what sort of trouble can Athos end up in? He’s in an empty house. There is nothing there that can hurt him. 

            Except perhaps himself. 

            The broken pieces of glass have fallen from his hands.  He’s resigned himself to smashing another bottle against his likeness, collapses under Thomas’ picture and remembers how much his brother had moaned about the painting. The poor artist had moaned more, because Thomas had fidgeted throughout, refused to sit, paced the room and begged their mother to go outside.  What should have taken an hour took an entire afternoon and the painter had to return the following day to make Athos’.  The Comte in the picture is not him.  There are smile lines around that man’s eyes.  A quirk to his lips that Athos does not recognize. No.  This man has died as surely as the rest of them.

            A quick glace to the torn portrait and he smells it again.

            He’s choking on Her perfume.

            Drowning in it. 

            Her skirts turn the corner and he cannot help but follow.  He snatches another bottle on his way through the dining hall, heads towards the library.

            Is taken by surprise. 

            Nothing is making sense.

            She isn’t dead.

            She isn’t dead.

            He is responsible for one less death. Or perhaps accountable for a myriad more, because he could not stand to watch Her die. 

            But here is his chance.  His best chance.

            “Please,” he’s bared his throat. Athos is not above begging for his death.  He has promised Porthos that he would not take his own life.  He does not understand why it means so much, because a more worthless life there has surely never been.

            When Her hand finds the locket he nearly sobs, can feel the tears running down his cheeks as the curtains catch fire. She can end this nightmare. Take away the pain. She owes him this much.

            But She is pressing his head to Her, kissing it as he remembers…

            “ATHOS!”

            She has to hurry.  Before they find him…

            But She’s gone.  His only chance gone with Her.  The tears fall freely then, and he cannot bring himself to move. His only comfort is that they have returned…

            “ATHOS!”

            He’s coughing, mumbles d’Artangan’s name, wishes that the flames licking his heels could be just a little faster…

            “You need to get up,” d’Artangan is insisting. Athos wants to tell him to just leave. But he forces himself to his knees, let’s d’Artangan pull him up the rest of the way.  For a second he thinks that this is Thomas, back from the dead, they’ve run down this hallway, hid in that closet…

            But the fresh air hits his face and his legs give way.  D’Artangan stumbles a few more paces, momentum propelling him forward as Athos falls to the ground.

            The sight of his childhood home burning to the ground should be harder to watch than this.  Athos thinks that he should be fighting to get back inside. To save all those little pieces that have made up his past....

            He is sobbing.

            D’Artangan moves to comfort him, to perhaps squeeze his shoulder, but Athos slumps away.

            He wants to thank Her.  For this one gift.  He knows She meant to hurt him, but She didn’t understand…She has done what he has tried to all along.

            She has burned Olivier to the ground.

            It was up to Athos to rise from the ashes.

            Still.  It was sad to see all the wine go.  Luckily all of the valuables, and all of his money, had been moved to Paris long ago, and were strewn in multiple hidey-holes throughout the city.

            D’Artangan attempted to clean the burn across his face, but Athos pushed him away, heading across the field and down to the stream.  In the dark it didn’t seem so familiar.  It could be any little brook that ran through France.  It wasn’t their stream.  He sluices the soot and smoke from his hair, his face, his clothes, and insists that they set out now, in the dark.

            The fire had burned the alcohol from his system. Has sliced part of the disease from his heart.  And while he may still have lost whatever it was that they had been slowly building, Athos can’t help but feel a little bit lighter.

            Even if he wishes that it was them who had come.

            He’s in Paris all of five minutes before he finds out what happened with Bonnaire.  Has already hatched a plan to fix it. 

            “You’re hurt,” Porthos says in response to his brilliant idea.

            Athos had thought he’d pulled the hat low enough. Turns out that he had, but d’Artangan needed to work on his poker face. 

            “There was an incident.  With a wall sconce.” 

            The anger has gone from Aramis’ eyes. Athos doesn’t even appear to need to seek forgiveness.  He feels that he should ask for it anyway.  Should at least, try, to explain.  But he can’t bring himself to do it in front of d’Artangan.  They have their demons.  Savoy. The Court of Miracles. Milady. D’Artangan still has a chance. Athos will not ruin this for him. He has seen too much, knows too much already. 

            It is three days later, and Bonnaire is long gone, when the adrenaline finally wears off and Athos finds himself crawling back towards the bottle.

            She is alive.

            He had seen how twisted Her love had become. She would stop at nothing to possess him.  And while She may not want to kill him…

            Athos sees the surprise on their faces when he stands from the table.  He’s only had one drink. But he can’t be seen with them. Not if She is watching.

            There’s not enough wine left in the bottle at home to bring a dreamless sleep.

            He dreams of Thomas, his body cold and stiff.

            Athos falls to his knees, rolls his brother over. She’s standing in the corner, feigning tears, and somehow he already knows the horrible truth…

            But it isn’t Thomas in his arms. It is not his brother he is mourning.

            Porthos stares up at him, warm eyes clouded over in death.

            Athos isn’t sure how he ends up there.

            He’s shirtless and freezing and his hand is in midair.  How long has he been knocking? 

            “M’coming,” someone grumbles from the other side. “Athos?  What the hell are you…get in here.” 

            Porthos is wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, pushing him into a chair, trying to bring the dying fire back to life as he sits there and shivers and stares.  If he could just kill himself, then She wouldn’t hurt them, wouldn’t hurt him…but Porthos is kneeling in front of him, looking at him as if he is some delicate figurine, the kind his mother kept displayed in her sitting room…

            “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Porthos asks softly.

            Yes.

            No. 

            He does, but he can’t find the words. Doesn’t know where to start.

            Porthos just waits, strangely still. Athos has never seen the man sit this quietly, he’s so used to the small fidgets, the way the fingers drum against his thigh…It is almost as if Porthos is afraid that the slightest move might cause Athos to run away.

            But he doesn’t want to run away.

            He wants to bury himself in Porthos’ chest (but that shoulder is still bandaged and he’d be sure to hurt the other man), wants to beg him to hold on and never let go.  Wants to replace Her (and Olivier), with a new, stronger Athos. Wants to prove that he can trust again. Can maybe even (is that hope?) love again. 

            “Do you want me to get Aramis?” Porthos finally asks, gently.  He makes to stand and Athos’ hand shoots out of its own accord, squeezes Porthos’ wrist.

            “Don’t go,” he whispers.

            The words seem to hang there between them. Athos is asking for something more, and Porthos, Porthos has always been wiser than he lets anyone think—has always seen more than anyone else.

            “I promise to never leave you.”

            Athos sags then, strings cut from his marionette body. 

            Porthos is true to his word. Is a man of honor. Will not break this promise.

            The fire has died out—they’ve been here for longer than Athos realized.  He senses Porthos’ hand rising, it brushes against the burn on his face, but instead of pulling away, he presses a kiss into the palm. 

            “I will…I will explain it all. Soon.”

            Athos reaches up, pulls off the heavy silver locket, and squeezes it tight. 

            He thinks of how far they’ve come.

            It was nearly a year ago that Aramis pulled him from that room, scared off the barmaid and ripped him to shreds. Nearly two since he tried to jump in the Seine.

            _If we have to walk the world to find you_ …

            But first he has to find himself.

            Athos has to decide the man he wants to become.

            Thinks that he will never be able to do that with this chain hanging heavily between him and them.

            “Athos?”

            “Can I borrow a tunic?” he’s lurching to his feet.

            A point in Porthos’ favor that he doesn’t ask what is going on.  “You’ll need boots.”

            Huh.  That explains why his feet were so cold. 

            The boots and tunic are both too big, but it smells of Porthos, and that is a good start.  He clomping like a packhorse through the puddles in the pre-dawn sky, but those already out and starting their day pay him no mind.

            Aramis is still asleep when he barges in and pulls him from his bed.  “Get dressed.”

            “Get lost,” Aramis grumbles in response, dragging the blanket over his head.  “We don’t have parade for another three hours at least.” 

            “Aramis,” Porthos says softly and the tousled head peeks out.  Takes in the too large tunic and boots.  The dark circles and the angry burn that Athos had been taking such care to hide. And the locket dangling from bloodless fingers. 

            “At least have the decency to turn around.”

            “Nothing we haven’t seen,” Porthos teases, but pulls Athos from the room. 

            The sun is peeking over the horizon by the time Aramis deems himself respectable for company.  He follows quietly behind Athos, eyes peeled for danger that the older man seems to be incapable of looking for himself right now. When he climbs on the rail of the bridge by the blacksmith, Aramis dives forward, grasping the back of the tunic and tugging.

            “No,” Athos bats the hand away. “Get up here.”

            Porthos shrugs, but doesn’t seem overly concerned, so they heave themselves up.  Athos holds the locket up over the clear water (and he hopes She’s followed, hopes She sees), but he doesn’t think that he can do this himself. His fist is trembling, his fingers have clenched so tightly that his entire arm aches, he has to let go.

            But he doesn’t have to do it alone.

            Aramis’ hand covers his, Porthos’ engulfing them both.  Aramis has worked his fingers underneath, between him and the locket.  Between him and Her.  And then Porthos opens them up.

            The locket falls open, catches the sunlight for one bright second (he was happy once, he lived in that light) and then slips under the water.  Aramis catches him around the waist, Porthos pulls him down, and they hold on until he can stand on his own. 

            “I’m sorry,” he murmurs and Aramis shakes his head.

            “It is I who am sorry,” fingers turn his head to examine the blisters on his face.  Athos suspects that it is infected, the sour look Aramis gives the wound cements those suspicions.  “We did promise that we would be there, when you needed a friend.  When you were in doubt.  When you were in danger.  I believe I have failed on all three counts.” 

            They are silent as they make their way back to Athos’ house.  He puts on his own tunic, finds his boots, lets Aramis clean his face. 

            His friends stand to leave when he finally finds the words.

            “I had a brother…his name was Thomas….”

            Until now, this thing between them has been about drowning out the pain.  At least, that’s what he thought it was.  Burying it behind the physical release of pounding flesh and desperate moans.

            He sees now that he was the only one who had been trying to do that.

            They’ve lured him in unexpected. Shaped and molded and changed him so that his desire to no longer live had become a desire to no longer live without them. 

            “Thomas,” Aramis encourages, sitting down on the mattress next to him.  Athos finds himself sliding closer, pressing his own body into the line of Aramis’ warmth.

            “We set the dining room rug on fire once,” Athos finds himself whispering, as if he is telling a dark secret that should not be let out.  “Not like She did, though.”

            Porthos has appeared on his other side, and She cannot get him here.  They are giving him the strength to rebuild himself.  To make a new man.  A better man. The man that they see in him. It comes out, all of it, in disjointed pieces.  They’re late for the morning parade (and will have to stand guard duty in that stupid garden for it), but when Athos sees himself in the warped looking glass by the door he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him. 

            And when Porthos pinches Aramis’ ass as the queen is taking a stroll that afternoon through those gardens, and Aramis kisses the back of Athos’ neck when d’Artangan is trying to chase away the swan that is biting his ankles, and Athos leans up against Porthos that night in the dark corner of the seedy bar, Athos thinks that maybe, finally, everything is going to be okay. 


End file.
